


Eros and Thanatos

by Nina36



Category: Stoker (2013)
Genre: Dry Humping, F/M, Kink, Light D/s undertones, Oral Sex, PWP, Uncle/Niece Incest, i'm officially going to hell in every religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 09:47:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14713742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nina36/pseuds/Nina36
Summary: Eros and Thanatos.Love and death, according to Greek mythology.What was he? Her attention wandered, from time to time, trying to see where he fit. Was he Eros? Was he the fire in her belly, the liquid heat pooling between her legs every time her mind went back to that night?Was he death?He killed – and he was magnificent while doing that. He was bigger than life itself.Perhaps, he was both. Perhaps, they both were.





	Eros and Thanatos

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the same “universe” as Moss, Blood and Water.   
> Aka: I’m really going to hell in every religion  
> Aka bis: Charlie Stoker does things to me.   
> This might sort of become a series. There is a reason for the actions in this story. Also, it is an AU.   
> It is also unlike anything I've ever written. I don't have a beta reader so, please, forgive me for any grammar mistake and weird syntax :) English is still not my language:)

 

 

_i_

The bruises were fading – blue, yellow, a halo of purple and green – she ached, he smiled. When she closed her eyes, she was in the woods again and she could see him; he towered over her, he saved her, he cursed her to burn up with a fire, deep in her belly, that left her breathless and craving for more. 

For the first time in her life, she knew where she belonged and what she wanted. 

She wasn’t sure whether it was a good thing, she only knew that she felt  _alive_ . She felt real. 

 

_ii_

_Eros and Thanatos._

Love and death, according to Greek mythology. 

What was he? Her attention wandered, from time to time, trying to see where he fit. Was he Eros? Was he the fire in her belly, the liquid heat pooling between her legs every time her mind went back to that night? 

Was he death?

He killed – and he was magnificent while doing that. He was bigger than life itself. 

Perhaps, he was both. Perhaps, they both were. 

 

_iii_

Yellow, with a halo of pale blue and green. 

Her skin was healing, the flowers were blooming and she was still burning up. 

If she pressed her thighs really tight together, there was some friction and an illusion of relief (release). She didn’t want that. 

She forced herself to feel  _it_ , to burn up and not to seek release. 

He was the curse and the curse breaker. 

He smiled at her from the garden as if he knew. 

 

_iv_

 

The silk was soft against her skin; it was cool against her heated flesh. 

The silk was meant for the night, she started to wear it  _after._

She forced herself not to keep her thighs pressed together during dinner, and not to squirm.

Her mom was drunk. She did not see. She could not see. 

He was not a man. He was Eros, he was Thanatos, he was a mark on her flesh and ran even deeper than that. 

Charlie drank his wine almost as if he knew she was keeping her legs spread under the table. 

Maybe he did. 

And  _maybe_ her pulse quickened, and new heat made her cheeks flush because she knew he did. 

 

_v_

 

There was a dishwasher in the kitchen, but Charlie hated it, she had sometimes watched him after dinner as he rolled up his sleeves and pretended to be normal and did house chores. How could people not see him, the real him, was something she truly couldn’t fathom. He was anything but normal, just like her. 

He had asked her to join her that night, right after dinner. She nodded, her mouth dry, her heart drumming against her ribcage, she could  _feel_ her blood flowing and saw the magnificent gossamer a spider was weaving in a corner of the room. 

He smirked, she licked her lips. He licked his and, for a moment, she could taste him: blood, and mint and wine and sweet death. 

 

_vi_

 

The bruises were yellow and pale red, now and her skin itched. 

They were elbow to elbow – lemon and hot water, a piano duet and cold earth under her were filling her senses. 

She held her breath. 

She was burning up. 

He was watching her, he always did, he handed her things to rinse and their fingers brushed, he looked at the closed door at his right and smiled.

He was the curse and the curse breaker. He knew she was burning up and release was just behind that closed door. 

She shattered the glass in her hand; she didn’t bleed, her stomach was filled with want. 

He held her wrist in his hand as he inspected the cut on her palm. It was clean, he said something but all she could see and hear was the rhythm of her heart and a bead of water making its way down his wrist. His touch was adding fuel to the fire inside of her; she was breathless, she could smell soap dish and chocolate. 

 

_vii_

 

The silk of her white nightgown was soft against her naked flesh; it covered the almost faded bruises, the visible marks that she was sorry to see gone from her skin. 

Her mother was asleep or passed out on the couch. The floor was cold under her soles. The silence was eerie and she could taste life: adrenaline and blood and wine in her mouth. 

The door was closed. 

She  _could_ go back to her room, she could sit somewhere, clench her thighs together until she finally felt some of the throbbing between her legs fade, much as her bruises. 

She could stick two fingers inside herself, while under the shower, and pretend the curse was broken. 

Or…

Or she could open that door. 

Would she meet Eros or Thanatos?

 

_viii_

 

She opened the door, later that night, when everything was quiet. 

Darkness didn’t scare her. Nothing, no one truly did. Weird. Or not, perhaps. 

“Close your eyes,” He said when she closed the door behind her. It was meant as a command, perhaps, but his voice was soft. 

She couldn’t see him, but she knew that he was smiling, she knew he  _could_ see her, because he always did. He always could. Like no one had done before or would, after.

“Come here.” He continued. His voice was still soft; it was a command and a suggestion. It was both. It was inevitable. 

Funnily enough, she knew exactly where he was, even in the dark; nevertheless, following some sort of script, she said, “I don’t know where you are.”

_Inside me, around me, in my blood, in my pale bruises._

Did he know? Of course, he did. That was the reason why she was there. That was the reason why it was dark all around them. 

She didn’t like being touched, except by him. When he touched her, she felt cursed and cured; it felt like fire and fresh earth under her skin.

His warm fingers closed around her wrist and she finally obeyed his command: she closed her eyes. 

Darkness on darkness. 

Fitting, wasn’t it?

He didn’t tell her to be careful, he just led her, it was just a few steps, but she didn’t mind. She wouldn’t mind following him into oblivion at the moment. 

 

_ix_

 

He was the curse, he was the detail she could not get out of her mind, that she could not draw, the note that she could not make into a melody while playing the piano. 

He was flesh and blood. 

He was her own flesh and blood and she didn’t  _care_ .

He was more. 

He was darkness: warm, inviting and secret; he was her impulses talking, breathing, chuckling shaming and absolving her all at once. 

That night in the woods had truly happened because the fire was too real, the yearning she felt – so alien, so  _unlike_ her, meant it had not been her imagination. He had towered over her, while she was on the ground and he had chocked the life out of that idiot boy with a belt. 

What had happened, after, had been real too. 

The fire, the craving was for both – the blood, the lights fading from someone’s eyes, the rush that came with it and what happened, after; how he saved and damned her, how she burned up and he made it all better. 

Her bruises meant that it had happened and the way he touched her when her back was against the cold concrete wall was just another proof of it. 

Lips, his own, on her neck, her collarbone; she remembered that; it was a jolt of electricity running through her: how she came alive, seeing only what mattered,  _feeling_ everything.

Her lips, tongue, tasting his skin: salty, clean, like sunshine – even there, in that mouldy, dark room, a cellar, with a fridge and old lamp bulbs. 

She was burning up, he was smiling against her skin, enjoying the fact that she couldn’t pretend, not there, not after she had chosen to open that door. 

She shivered when he uncovered her breasts, she heard the soft noise the silk made as it pooled to the floor. 

She was naked, he wasn’t. He was – darkness and fire. And she kept her eyes closed, as he had asked her to do.

He had kissed her that night,  _after._ It had happened, but it was different that time – she was burning up, but he was as well. 

They could consume each other, kissing like that: breathing each other’s air, tasting each other – and she needed  _more._

“India – “ He panted against her lips when she broke the kiss, gasping for air. 

His body was solid, hot – _real,_ against her naked flesh, he was still wearing clothes and she loved the feeling of the texture of them against her skin. 

“India -” He repeated. There was a question, somewhere, in the way, he said her name. 

Didn't he know what she wanted, needed?

He _had_ to – because he was the curse, he was solid, bigger than life. He was Thanatos, he was Eros, he was – _there,_ touching her, tasting her, leaving marks that would become new bruises on her skin in the dark.

When his thigh nudged hers, she couldn't control her body; she had kept her legs spread under the table, she had denied herself release, even a bit of it because it was torture and she loved it.

That was torture too, the way he was offering her friction knowing it was not enough, but his hands were around her waist, guiding her and she was too busy _feeling._

_Yes. Oh, yes._

That dark room hid secrets, that things that only Charlie and she knew; it was dark and it smelled faintly of water and dust, the concrete wall was cold against her naked back, it was not unpleasant, not when the rest of her body was becoming molten lava.

She couldn't even make out his face in the dark, but she knew he was looking at her and when she traced his lips with her fingers she knew he was smirking.

“I -” She breathed.

She needed to move and he was letting her, but just barely.

“I'm burning up.” She said.

Like in the woods, like that night and his response was a kiss, deep, open-mouthed that left her breathless.

“Close your eyes.” He said. He ordered.

She had opened them, at some point, and he must have known. And he was holding her up, he was strong and she was on fire so she obeyed.

“Let go.” He said.

She did. She needed to; it wasn't his fingers inside of her – he was barely touching her, in fact, but it was what she wanted – to have him break the curse, to let that fire in her belly explode and make her think again, _after._

Her breaths were coming out ragged and he was panting as well and she was close – the pressure was building up more and more, and she was vaguely aware of the fact that she would have scratches on her back and bruises on her waist because he was not relenting his grip on her.

She was _his_ – in the dark and it was not what she had expected, but Charlie never did that.

Uncle Charlie, who appeared out of thin air and turned her life on its axis and who was currently only allowing her release from the fire in her belly by allowing her to hum his thigh; he wasn't touching her because they weren't in the woods and he had not just chocked a stupid boy with his belt and had not done so while looking at her.

No. He was the curse and the curse breaker; he was Eros and Thanatos and you could not make requests with them.

But she wanted to. God, did she want to.

When he broke off the contact between them, right when stopping undulating her hips would have been impossible even if she had wanted to (and she didn't. She wanted to see white stars behind her closed lids, she wanted the blood, her own, pumping madly through her veins and she wanted to taste Charlie's), she didn't even open her eyes, at first.

“Don't move.” He said. His voice was dark, it was night and chocolate and red wine. She didn't move, she tried to picture herself, naked against that wall, her legs spread her nipples aching – and she would paint that, one day – she would paint the details only she could see, she would play that moment on the piano: a crescendo stopped by one single note.

And then his hands were on her buttocks: impossibly warm and strong her own flew to his head and his mouth was on her, without preambles, and she let out a soft cry – and he chuckled against her core and the pressure kept building because it felt like he was everywhere at once: around her, inside of her (he wasn't, not physically, but he was making her blood scream); she was dimly aware of the fact that she was bleeding, she had scratched the wall behind her too hard, and the idea of her blood mixing with the pleasure she was feeling made her hips buckle.

He was relentless, keeping his actions even as she rode the wave of the first orgasm.

Orgasm. She did not just come, like in the car that night or, after, in the shower. It was more – even if she had no idea at how to label it.

Words – there were words and images, sounds and smells.

And there was him: kissing his way upwards, gently biting her nipples as she still shivered with aftershocks.

Her hands were still in her hair and she knew she was supposed to reciprocate, but when she lowered her hand to his fly he gently, but firmly moved it away.

“Turn around.” He said.

His voice was unlike she had ever heard it, she wondered how much he was burning up too. She turned

She clenched her fists when she heard him unzipping his pants. Her mouth was dry.

Yes. She wanted that, she had wanted that for so long.

He licked the blood away from her back and shoulders, she didn't know whether he had seen it or smelled it, but she couldn't help moaning feeling his tongue on her skin, she could feel the soft cotton of his shirt against her skin and she decided right there that the next time she would feel his own skin against hers.

And wasn't it surprising?

She knew the first time had really happened, after all. She had willingly chosen to get into that room, she was shaking with anticipation and she already knew that there would be a next time.

And he did too.

His voice felt like a prophecy, another curse when he said in her ear, “I will only fuck you when _you_ come to me.”

He knew her. He knew she would never do that. It worked when they were in the dark; when she begged for help because she was burning up with something that she could not even put into words (lust? Bloodlust?), but he knew she would not go to him.

Even if he was burning up with lust as well, and he wanted her.

She didn't reply, not with words; she didn't particularly like the feeling of the way he rubbed himself against her backside; it felt intimate, but not enough – it was an imperfect creation, but she noted the way he liked it when she moved against him, and how his pace picked up speed when she sought his hand in the dark and methodically started to suck on his fingers, one by one, until, for once, he was the one who let go, whose movements usually so elegant and controlled became almost erratic and he chanted her name, growled it almost – like she was his curse and curse breaker, and she did not expect that.

She did not even expect that she would feel heat pooling between her legs again, that feeling him rubbing himself between her buttocks would become pleasant, after all.

And he must have felt it or smelled it in the air because when she stopped sucking on his middle finger (and she loved how he tasted, she loved the sounds he made) he took her hand in his and guided it to her core.

Fingers, her own and his, flicking, pushing, teasing as he reached his climax and she felt close, so close to reaching hers.

_I will only fuck you when you come to me._

There would be new bruises on her skin that she would inspect and prod with tentative fingers, scratches on her shoulders and a fire, burning inside of her.

Until the next time.

Until the bruises faded.

 

 

 


End file.
